


Experimental Prose

by juniper_and_lamplight



Series: Close Reading [7]
Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Belonging, Books, Character Study, Established Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Injury, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Reading, Reading Aloud, Reading difficulties, The Universe and its wily ways, detective fiction, mystery novels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-09-30 09:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniper_and_lamplight/pseuds/juniper_and_lamplight
Summary: “The stories are...tangential. Sometimes enjoyable, largely unbelievable, anddefinitelynot the point of the exercise.”





	Experimental Prose

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to flailfail and electricteatime for suggesting ways in which to concuss poor Todd, and thanks again to flightinflame for suggesting that reading works differently for people with holistic abilities.

_ **Now** _

“_Shit_.”

Dirk tries to keep his voice down as he plucks ineffectually at the laces of Todd’s sneakers. The shoelaces are double-knotted and pulled tight, and while Dirk would typically commend Todd for being so prepared (running, often of the “away” variety, is a not-insignificant part of their investigative process), today isn’t typical, and Dirk just wants the damn shoes _off._

For all that Farah is continually nattering on about concussions, Dirk had, until today, viewed them as the mythical bogeyman of personal injuries—frightening in theory, but unlikely to actually occur. Of course, unlikely and frightening things are the norm in Dirk’s life, which means that today’s events are, from a certain perspective, _his _fault. Though clearly Todd bears _most _of theresponsibility—_he_ was was the one who’d been sitting with his chair teetering on its two back legs; _he _was the one who’d lost his balance; and _he _was the one who’d left a wobbly pile of hardcover books on top of their already-overstuffed bookshelf. The undeniable humor in watching Todd tumble ass-over-teakettle out of his chair had been short-lived, immediately neutralized by the shock of watching several falling books knock Todd more thoroughly unconscious than a punch from his own prized knuckle-dusters.

Dirk had been on the other side of the room when it happened, close enough to see it but too far away to prevent it. (If questioned, Dirk will deny that he laughed at Todd’s initial fall, and since Todd’s memory is suspect, what with the brain damage and all, no one can gainsay Dirk’s version of events.) He _really _doesn’t want to dwell on the heart-stopping few seconds between the _thwump_of heavy books hitting Todd’s skull and the moment when Dirk reached his side and saw his eyelids fluttering as he swam back to consciousness. Nope, those few seconds need to be tamped down tight for the moment, and so Dirk focuses on loosening the knots in Todd’s shoelaces, so that Todd can finally have a proper, post-ER-visit lie-down. He’s _so _focused, in fact, that he forgets himself and lets out a triumphant “HA!” when he finally manages to prize off both battered canvas shoes. 

Todd hisses at the loud noise, and Dirk winces as he stands up and helps Todd swivel his legs onto the bed. Gingerly, Todd settles back against the pillows and closes his eyes. 

“I can’t believe that after all the shit we’ve done, _this _is how I finally got a head injury,” he grouses. “Can we just tell Amanda that I got concussed for a cool, case-related reason, and leave out the part where I was clumsier than one of the ‘before’ people from an infomercial?”

Dirk ignores this question, because he doesn’t have the heart to tell Todd that Farah already texted Amanda, who’d replied with “lmao” followed by eight cry-laughing emojis. In lieu of a response, Dirk pulls out the pharmacy bag and sheaf of paperwork he’d been given at the hospital. “Now that you’re good and comfy, how about we go over these guidelines from the doctor? There are rather a lot of them, and Farah made some extremely specific threats about what would happen if I didn’t study them closely and have you follow them to the letter.”

Todd makes a noncommittal grunting sound, eyes still closed. Dirk glances over the papers, grateful that the instructions are succinct enough that it only takes a minute to parse them for meaning. “The long and the short of it seems to be that you need to take it easy for the next several weeks. That means no working cases, no playing guitar, no screens, no reading… generally speaking, you’re forbidden from anything that requires—” Dirk consults the paperwork again “—‘thinking or mental concentration.’ Well, that shouldn’t be _too _difficult for you!”

Todd opens his eyes, his exhausted expression shifting into his habitual exasperated scowl. “Dirk?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Please don’t make me have to murder you when my head hurts this much.”

“You couldn’t murder me right now anyway,” Dirk scoffs, “since you’re forbidden from ‘vigorous physical activity’ as well as mental concentration. And while it might not _seem _like you’d need either of those to do me in, the fact that so many people have tried and failed at it indicates that it requires _rather _a lot of both.”

“Could gag you, at least,” Todd mutters.

Has Todd even been _listening_? “As _interesting _as it might be to explore that particular kink—” Todd makes a strangled noise, but Dirk carries on talking “—I think that sex would _also _constitute a vigorous physical activity, which means it’s _strictly _off-limits for the time being. Jesus, Todd, keep up!”

“I _can’t_ keep up, I have a literal brain injury,” Todd groans, flopping his forearm over his eyes.

“Oh, right.” Dirk rummages in pharmacy bag on the nightstand, extracting a pill bottle. “That reminds me, the doctor at the hospital prescribed a slightly higher dose of your pararibulitis medication, as an extra precaution against any attacks strong enough that they might _re_-injure your brain, because that would be, well—” Dirk fumbles for any word other than _fatal_ “—possibly-maybe-irreparably bad?” He makes an exaggerated grimace, but Todd doesn’t crack a smile. Shit. _Shitshitshit_. He’d been deliberately trying _not _to worry Todd, and now he’s done the opposite. Seeing the worry on Todd’s face makes Dirk’s own worry begin to snowball—the doctor had made the higher dosage seem like a routine preventative measure, but now Dirk can’t stop thinking about an attack causing a fatal re-injury. There are any number of hard surfaces in the flat that Todd could hit his head on: the walls, the floors, the tables, the countertops, the very headboard that is currently _right behind_ Todd. Maybe he should insulate the headboard with soft things? There’s a spare duvet somewhere around here, and probably some duct tape. Or perhaps he should get Todd a _helmet _to wear around the flat, just until...

“Dirk.” Todd’s voice interrupts his spiral. 

“Nothing! What?”

Todd sits up with visible effort. “I can _see _you thinking, but whatever you’re thinking about, let’s just...deal with it tomorrow, okay? All I want to do right now is _rest_. Rest _here_, in our bed, and not in a loud, bright hospital where you can’t even sleep without someone waking you up every ten seconds.”

Dirk’s heart sinks just a little at that. “Yes, of course! Resting is fine. More than fine—_great_, actually! But, ah....you _do _know that the doctor saidI’m supposed to wake you up at regular intervals? Not every ten seconds, but every couple of hours, just to make sure that you _can _wake up properly?”

Todd sighs the weariest sigh in his impressive arsenal of weary sighs. “Of course.”

“Just for the next few hours.”

“Fine, whatever.” Todd closes his eyes again. “Do what you need to do, but for now, can you just...” He trails off, clearly out of energy for making words, but Dirk is getting better at intuiting when Todd wants something he can’t ask for.

Dirk hastily shimmies out of his own shoes and jacket and slides into the bed next to Todd, who reaches out with his eyes still closed, pulling Dirk close and curling around Dirk’s body. Dirk curls an arm around him in return, carefully pillowing Todd’s bruised head against his chest. “Todd, I hesitate to suggest a book, given their role in your injury, but if it doesn’t bother you, maybe we could pick up where we left off?” He rubs a soothing hand up and down Todd’s arm. “It’s a nice, _quiet _activity, not _too _mentally strenuous, and—oh, _nuts_.” 

“What.” Todd’s voice, muffled by Dirk’s sternum, sounds too tired to even make the word a question.

“You’re not _allowed _to read, remember?”

“_Dirk_.”

Dirk isn’t sure why Todd sounds so frustrated until the penny drops, and uneasiness catches in his throat. In all their time doing this reading-out-loud thing together, _Todd _had been the one reading while Dirk listened, and he’d never once asked to change things up. Until now. Now, when Todd _needs _him.

Dirk ignores the dread twisting inside him and reaches for the book on the nightstand.

* * *

_ **Then** _

It was Blackwing that made him realize that he didn’t read the way other people did. 

The signs and labels he saw when he was marched from room to room were usually easy to decipher, unless they were names stitched on uniforms and lab coats—_those_ were often gibberish to him, though there were a few that he was able to read perfectly. He could always read Mona when she turned into something textual, but he often struggled with the readouts on the machines that monitored Project Moloch. When Blackwing tested his reading ability (because of course they did, they tested _everything_) he powered through as best he could, and somehow scored well enough to not raise suspicion...or so he thought, at first. He didn’t realize, then, that the books Riggins brought him were also a test. 

Some were full of facts, and he’d slog through them, annoyed at having to try so hard at something so boring. Sometimes, though, certain facts would leap out at him from the page, coming clear to him with sudden ease, as if a foggy window had been wiped momentarily clear. The same thing happened with the stories—most of the time, he struggled to read the words in order or tell the characters apart, but occasionally, he’d slide into swift, deep understanding, not even realizing that he’d done so until he resurfaced to find the letters swimming on the page once again. He couldn’t work out why it happened, but that was true of pretty much everything he experienced, so it hardly stood out. Sometimes, they even brought him books in other languages, which was as intriguing as it was baffling. He’d never managed to read anything except English, though there was one foreign language book that made his memories clamor, as if he somehow knew the _sound _of these words, if not the sight of them.

He must’ve been about ten or eleven years old the first time he read a book cover-to-cover, without hesitation or confusion. The dead reclusive millionaire, the apartment building filled with potential heirs, the disjointed puzzle-piece clues that seemed unrelated until they all clicked together—he’d never read anything like it, though he’d experienced similar things, albeit on a much smaller scale. (Finding lost cats wasn’t quite as impressive as unravelling a multilayered murder plot.) It felt...tantalizing, somehow, the notion of things falling into place like that. He was still trying to work up the courage to ask Riggins for more books like it when the guards arrived with a box _full _of mystery stories. The bright surge of pleasure he’d felt when he opened it drained away quickly when he realized what the box meant: they’d been watching his revelatory reading binge, and these books were yet another test, to see if they could make it happen again. 

He read through every book in the box anyway, without the slightest bit of difficulty. And he put a name to that tantalizing hope they kindled inside him: _detective_.

There were a lot more words to contend with in the exhilarating, terrifying freedom of the world outside Blackwing. Reading didn’t become any easier, or any less unpredictable. Some things made sense right away, and others took effort, but at least no one was _watching _him, judging him (with the notable exception of his brief, disastrous stint at university—though he had enjoyed the sensation of being surrounded by other students who were equally flummoxed by the assigned readings). He adopted a practice of avoiding any unnecessary reading or writing, even though he never managed to kick the longing to gorge himself on every detective novel he could lay his sticky fingers on. His resolve wavered from time to time, but whenever he found himself faced with a shelf of mysteries in a shop (preferably one with an inattentive bookseller) or a library (one of the few that hadn’t yet kicked him out), he chickened out. It was just too awful to imagine that lightning wouldn’t strike again, that those stories and the hope they awakened would become one more thing that Blackwing took from him.

* * *

_ **Now** _

Dirk opens the book to the most recent dog-eared page and gives himself a hasty internal pep-talk.

_This is fine. It’s going to be fine. Just because you might be completely rubbish at reading out loud doesn’t mean that Todd will be disappointed and embarrassed to have taken up with someone who can’t even master primary school skills. It's all fine-ness._

He scans the page, easily locating the paragraph where they’d left off. So far, so good.

“So, as you remember, Jared was helping Mike after the whole face-washing thing.” Todd makes a sleepy sound of assent, and Dirk takes a deep breath before diving in.

_“‘There’s no shame in therapy, Mike,’ he says as I change shirts, ‘Or medicine. You shouldn't have to go through this.’”_

Two whole sentences. An entire paragraph, even! And he’d gotten through it without the words blurring or jumping around or at any point ceasing to make sense. Encouraged, he keeps going, and within just a few more paragraphs, he can feel Todd’s breathing start to even out, his limbs growing twitchy and then heavy as he slides toward sleep. Dirk lowers his voice, but keeps reading.

_“Yeah, I know most people would think it weird that two guy friends touch as much as we do, but when you choose your family, you get to choose how it is between you, too. This is how we work. I hope you get to choose your family and I hope it means as much to you as mine does to me.”_

Well, _that’s _a bit on the nose, isn't it? Dirk wonders if Todd, half-asleep and concussed as he is, even heard it, but the tightening of Todd’s arm around Dirk’s waist is answer enough. Dirk keeps reading until Todd falls asleep completely, and he doesn’t fumble a single syllable. It’s the most flawless reading experience he’s ever had, better even than his childhood mystery marathons. The fact that this is happening to him _now,_ just when he needs it, is damn near _miraculous_—if you believe in miracles, which he doesn’t. But he _does _believe in the universe, having been confronted with irrefutable evidence of its effects, and unlike when he was detective-obsessed child, he’s now able to recognize when the universe is trying to get his attention. 

Slowly, so as not to dislodge Todd, Dirk sets several “wake up boyfriend to ensure lack of brain bleeding” alarms, switches off the lamp, and lies back in the bed, allowing the hazy hypothesis to take shape in the back of his mind. 

* * *

_ **Then** _

They didn’t read together every night, because the unpredictable and frequently alarming lifestyle of a holistic detective didn’t really allow for such regularity. But they read together every night they _could_, and the rarity of the routine made it all the more meaningful, at least as far as Dirk was concerned. Todd never said how he felt about it, but he kept reading to Dirk, and in this area at least, Dirk was content to let Todd’s actions say what his words couldn’t.

When he’d first asked Todd to read to him, he’d only been thinking about Todd, offering him a non-selfish reason to revisit something he obviously loved and had been denying himself for too long. The ploy had worked—after Todd finished reading _The Book of Three_ to Dirk, he’d hesitantly asked if Dirk wanted to read the next book in the series, and Dirk had surprised himself by agreeing. Dirk considered things like “holding still” and “sustained listening” to be perilously low on his list of personal skills (if they even made the list at all), but when Todd read to him, it tripped some sort of comfort switch, similar to the gut-level click of solving a case or the post-orgasmic rush of brain chemicals. It flooded him with a feeling of _yes, THIS_. He was reluctant to reduce the sensation to a single word, but if he had to, that word would be _belonging_. 

Not only had Todd continued reading to Dirk, he’d also started reading on his own again. It had begun gradually: Dirk would catch Todd reading a library book while eating cereal in the morning, or he’d find Todd’s comic books among the debris on their coffee table. (Dirk never felt moved to read any of these on his own, though he sometimes leafed through them—the one about reincarnated gods was too violent for his taste, but the character designs offered some irresistible sartorial inspiration.) When Todd started bringing secondhand paperbacks to the office to read during downtime, Farah pounced, seeming both excited to have another way to connect with Todd, and also angry that she hadn’t known about it before. (Todd’s bicep bore a fist-shaped bruise for a week.) After Farah interrogated Todd about his reading preferences, she started bringing in books she thought he’d like, and their detective agency’s once-idle office chatter suddenly took on a literary bent. Both Farah and Todd seemed to have crushes on characters from something called Shades of Magic (though Dirk couldn’t fathom how books about window coverings could possibly be sexy); they agreed that a certain notorious, bearded fantasy author was overrated (Dirk secretly sympathized with the author’s inability to finish his most popular series); they fought over whether Diana should win Jones (Dirk hadn’t realized writing was so competitive); and they even made a joint pilgrimage to the bookstore to pick up the latest book by Enke Gemson, whoever he was.

At first, they’d tried to include Dirk in these bookish discussions, which made Dirk so profoundly uncomfortable that he found excuses to avoid said discussions until Todd and Farah clued in and allowed him to simply half-listen, bemused but basking in the happiness of his favorite people. 

One day, while Farah was carrying on about some wizard detective series she wanted Todd to read, she turned and gave Dirk a sudden, swift appraising look. He wasn’t sure why until later, when she came over to perch next to him on the edge of his desk. 

“I brought this in for Todd,” she said, pulling a book out of her stylish (if unforgivably drab) leather jacket, “but...you might like it too?” 

He regarded the book warily. “Farah, that’s very sweet of you, but you know that reading is really not my _thing_. Especially not fantasy.”

Her face turned wary as well. “What’s wrong with fantasy?”

“Nothing! It’s just...not for me. I mean, a wizard detective? It’s all too far-fetched for my taste.” 

“Dirk.” She leveled one of her patented Looks at him. “You’ve met an actual wizard. You yourself are a detective with quasi-magical powers. How can _you_, of all people, claim that fantasy novels are too far-fetched?”

Dirk shrugged. “It’s one thing to personally experience something, and another to read about things someone else made up and just be expected to go along with it. I have to go along with enough bizarre shit as it is, thanks very much.”

“But...” Farah seemed puzzled. “Todd said that he reads fantasy books with you, sometimes?”

“He does.” He felt a small smile bloom across his face, but tried to keep any other signs of preening on the inside.

“Why, though, if you don’t like it? You don’t typically put up with things you’re not into, not if you have a choice.”

“But I _am _into it!” The words came out louder than he’d intended. “I’m into the Todd reading part, that is. The stories are....tangential. Sometimes enjoyable, largely unbelievable, and _definitely _not the point of the exercise.”

“What _is _the point then?”

Wasn’t it bloody obvious? “_Todd_ is the point! Hearing his favorite stories, spending time with him when neither of us are on a case and/or in mortal peril…” He trailed off, lacking the words to explain the real reason, that completed-puzzle sense of satisfaction and safety he felt when Todd read to him.

“Oh.” Farah nudged Dirk’s shoulder with her own. “Maybe I should’ve brought you a romance novel instead.” 

Dirk rolled his eyes. “Please don’t, they’re painfully heterosexual, and even less realistic than fantasy.”

“How would you even know, if you don’t read?” 

“Romances all end with a happily ever after, don’t they?” 

“That’s a basic tenet of the genre, yes.”

“Exactly! It’s a basic tenet, and it’s bullshit. It’s my inescapable, universe-ordained mission to help people be where they need to be, and even _I_ know there’s no such thing as happily ever after. Whether it’s because people change or people die, happiness always ends.”

“That’s...a grim way to look at it.”

Dirk shrugged again. “It’s just the way things are. The sky is blue, plain brown leather jackets are boring, and happiness is fleeting. It doesn’t mean you can’t seize happiness whenever you find it and try to hang on for as long as possible. So I suppose it’s the ‘ever after’ that I object to, rather than the ‘happy.’” 

Farah nodded thoughtfully, ignoring his needling about her wardrobe choices. “You know, these days, there are romance novels that are more open-ended. Instead of a ‘happily ever after’ where characters get married or ride off into the sunset, they have a ‘happy for now.’” 

“That sounds...better.” Dirk gazed across the office at Todd, who was cursing at the malfunctioning office coffeemaker. As if sensing Dirk’s eyes on him, he looked up, his scowl softening into a hint of a smile before he resumed his abuse of the offending machine. “I think happy for now is the most any of us can ask for.”

Farah’s eyes were warm as she gave Dirk’s arm a quick squeeze, and then hopped down off the desk. “If you’re interested in reading that kind of romance, I can think of several books that you might—” She stopped short when Dirk rolled his eyes again, and then held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine! No more book-pushing. But you know where to find me if you change your mind.”

* * *

_ **Now** _

About a week into Todd’s concussion recovery, after Dirk’s had some time to ruminate on his hypothesis, he texts Farah that he’s finally changed his mind—could she please recommend a book for him? He’ll take any book _she_ thinks he ought to read. She texts her assent immediately (she even uses an exclamation point), and she shows up at his door within half an hour.

The book she’s chosen is a romance, and while the cover features a promisingly non-heterosexual illustration of two men, the cover is also delicately, distressingly _pink_. Dirk goggles at its pinkness for a moment, then looks back at Farah. “I’m finding it hard to believe that _you _have anything _this _color in your possession.”

Farah tugs on the lapels of her jacket (the black one, just as stylish, just as boring). “What, I can’t have layers?”

“Of course you can, I just didn’t think any of those layers came in such a dainty shade of_—_ow!” He prefers Farah’s gentle shoulder nudges to her more emphatic shoves.

“Dirk, that book is _relentlessly _charming and hilarious, and I _dare_ you not to enjoy it.” She turns on her boot-heel and leaves just as quickly as she arrived.

Dirk considers the book in his hand. Reading an unapologetically pink romance novel is as good a way as any to try out his hypothesis.

Over the past week, Dirk has read to Todd on a daily basis, not only from their usual reading material (mostly classic fantasy, with occasional forays into newer stuff), but also from whatever else will keep Todd from losing his mind. Because unlike wrung-out post-pararibulitis-attack-Todd, post-concussion-Todd is fractious, bored, and resentful about all the things he’s not allowed to do. Consequently, it’s been Dirk’s job to help Todd keep up, reading to him not only from books, but also from music websites, news-of-the-weird Google alerts, the agency email, even Todd’s text messages. While Dirk isn’t wild about acting as Todd’s secretary as well as his boyfriend, best friend, and caregiver, he’s been fascinated by the results of his reading investigations thus far. 

Because as it turns out, that first try wasn’t a fluke—the same smooth, effortless comprehension happens every single time Dirk reads to Todd. After a few days of this unprecedented competence, Dirk had picked up a random book and tried to read it silently to himself, only to have his confidence dashed: reading the book was just as much of a struggle as it had been for most of his life. _That _was when he’d resolved to properly explore the hypothesis that had been germinating since the night of Todd’s concussion. (Typically, he'd avoid anything even resembling the scientific method, but Dirk had a suspicion that he couldn’t rely on hunches for this one.) With this resolution in mind, he’d started reading to Todd, unprompted, every chance he got, from whatever random sources he encountered: roadside billboards, cereal boxes, flyers on light poles, the sidebar of YouTube. Nearly all of them were a challenge to read, forcing Dirk to concentrate on every word—unless the random thing turned out to be something interesting or useful to _Todd_. If the flyer was for a band Todd liked, or the YouTube sidebar listed another video Todd wanted to listen to, then reading it was a snap. 

It’s clear that his patchy reading abilities are enhanced not just by proximity to Todd, but by _utility _for Todd. If he’s helping Todd, or even just making Todd happy, then his tricksy little scamp of a brain allows him to read without difficulty. Dirk’s isn’t quite ready to examine _why _this might be true (therein lies a can of squirmy emotional worms), but he _is _ready to push the limits of the hypothesis. Specifically: does it _only _work with Todd, or does it apply to _anyone _Dirk helps? If reading the Very Pink Book will make Farah happy, does that mean that Dirk will only have to suffer through the content of the book, rather than the act of reading it? 

As it turns out, there’s no suffering at all, because reading the book is an absolute _breeze_. Yes, some of the references to pop culture and U.S. politics fly right over his head, but they’re all perfectly comprehensible on the page. Moreover, he loses Farah’s dare, because he _does _enjoy the book—it’s just as queer as he’d hoped, and it steadily melts his cynicism until he’s swamped with ludicrous, gooey feelings, not to mention amorous impulses that are _very _inconvenient for a person whose partner has a head injury. The best part by _far_, however, is Farah’s glow when he tells her how much he loved the book.

Having proved that the phenomenon is not Todd-specific, Dirk decides to look at a more complex variable, and to face down an old fear while he’s at it. He goes to the secondhand shop and buys a tall stack of detective novels, including several recommended by Hobbs, and methodically attempts to read the first chapter of each. Mona obliges by becoming a pack of multicolored sticky notes, so he can keep track of the results. And the results are...inconclusive.

As expected, he can read everything that Hobbs recommended, but the others are a mixed bag, and it takes him a while (and many, many, Mona-stickies) to figure out the pattern. The mysteries that feature police officers, FBI agents, and the like are a complete muddle; the ones about private detectives or amateurs are a bit easier, but still require dedicated effort; it’s only the odd ones, such as the children’s book about a Victorian teen who finds lost people, or the wizard detective book (which he’d secretly swiped from Farah’s desk) that put him right back into a focused, immersive reading state. Essentially, it appears that the more relevant a story is to his own unique style of detection, the easier it is to read.

When he’s made it through the whole stack, Dirk thanks Mona for her help, and then droops face-first onto the book-strewn tabletop. (This whole “facts and reasoning” lark might be less dangerous than his usual hunches, but it’s _tiring_.) Closing his eyes, he tries to mentally walk through every case he’s ever solved, every person he’s ever helped. As he goes, he tries not to focus on the astonishing array of disasters he’s been party to, but instead keeps a mental tally of every time he was able to put something he’d read to use. It’s difficult, because he can’t possibly remember _every _TV news ticker, every advertising circular, every set of winning lottery numbers that later became relevant. Yet as the tally grows, connections become clearer. 

As a kid, he’d been able to easily read things that kept him alive (directional signs, Mona’s words, the names of dangerous people) or that gave him ideas for his future if he ever got free (detective mysteries). After he’d gotten free, he’d been able to read just enough to scrape by (bus schedules, lost pet posters, saleable university exam papers). Since becoming a detective, he’s been able to read case-related things (unpaid invoices, horoscopes, notes from his future self) without difficulty, and has also, he now realizes in retrospect, unwittingly read a lot of seemingly random snippets of information that later proved useful in a case (the embossed title of a book abandoned in a cafe, an interview with a band who performed a hit song about a potato). And then there’s his newly discovered ability to read things that either aid him in his work or reinforce his personal relationships. 

When he looks at it all together, he can draw only one conclusion: _the universe is looking out for him_. Maybe it has been all along, in a backhanded sort of way.

Granted, it’s arbitrary in application. His variable reading skills seem to be suited to his _needs_, rather than his _wants_, and he doesn’t have any say in the prioritization of said needs—he can recall plenty of times when he’s been _un_able to read things that would have kept him safer, such as signs declaring “caution: electric fence,” or “shoplifters will be prosecuted,” or “beware of the leopard.” It’s definitely arbitrary, but the universe is _always _arbitrary. It’s _never _helpful...or so he’d thought. Now, he wonders if it’s been giving him quiet nudges all along, and he just couldn’t recognize them until he reached this point, the place where he’s finally allowed to make his own connections instead of just helping other people make theirs. Now, he wonders if he truly _is _where he’s meant to be, at least for the foreseeable future. If a “happy for now” is all he can get, he’ll take it. And he’ll hang on as long as he can.

He opens his eyes and sits up, seized with a sudden desire to celebrate this holistic paradigm shift. As he grabs his jacket and heads for the door, he doesn’t even bother googling “bookstores near me.” He knows he’ll find one. 

An hour later, he’s back home, standing in front of the bookshelf and trying to find the right spot for his new acquisition. Todd wanders in from the kitchen and kisses him hello in that soft, casual way that still makes Dirk feel all fizzy (not to mention _unbelievably _lucky). 

“I was just starting to get worried, after you ran off so suddenly. New book?”

“Well spotted.”

Todd elbows him in the ribs. “Asshole. Was there a reasonyou needed to buy a book all of a sudden?

“To buy this particular book, actually. I had a...minor personal epiphany, I suppose you could call it, and it made me think about how you had a copy of your favorite book from childhood, but I didn’t have a copy of mine.”

“So you went out and bought yours?” Dirk nods, and Todd examines the book’s cover art, with its teetering house of dollar bills. “I don’t think I read this one when I was a kid.” He lifts his eyes to Dirk’s. “Read it to me?”

Dirk shakes his head and proffers the book. “You got the all-clear from the doctor yesterday, remember? You’re allowed to read on your own again.”

“I know. But...” Todd grabs his tie and gives it an awkward little tug. “I like when you do it.” 

Dirk pumps his fists internally at this admission, but outwardly, he simply bobs his head, and lets Todd use the tie to pull him into another kiss. 

Todd insists on moving a safe distance from the bookshelf (even though the offending volumes have long since been shifted to the new, smaller shelf in their bedroom), so they relocate to the squishy armchair in the living room. The chair is barely big enough to hold them both, but after some maneuvering (and a bit of petty shoving) they manage to wedge themselves into a semi-comfortable position. Dirk feels Todd give a tiny sigh, and as he inhales the soapy scent of Todd’s cheap shampoo, the familiar feeling of _yes, THIS_ hits him, more overwhelming than ever before. Only now he doesn’t hesitate to put a word to it, because he _knows_: this is where he belongs.

Dirk clears his throat, opens the book to the first page, and begins.

**Author's Note:**

> That’s a wrap for this wildly self-indulgent series! Thanks to anyone who read this far--kudos or comments will be cherished, and feel free to find me on Tumblr to yell about DGHDA and the reading habits of fictional people.  
* * *  
Yes, I realize that the “wake up concussed people every couple of hours” thing is not necessarily recommended any more, but I liked it for this story, and so I kept it. 
> 
> Works and authors referenced:  
-_The Westing Game_, Ellen Raskin (Dirk’s first mystery, and the childhood favorite he buys at the end)  
-_The Rest of Us Just Live Here_, Patrick Ness (quoted; the first book that Dirk reads to Todd; it’s a Very Todd book, y’all)  
-_The Wicked + the Divine_, Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie (first mentioned in part 6; the comic book with the fashions Dirk likes)  
-Shades of Magic series, V.E. Schwab  
-Patrick Rothfuss OR George R.R. Martin (YOU decide which bearded fantasy author Todd & Farah think is overrated!)  
-Diana Wynne Jones (who was a person, not a competition)  
-N.K. Jemisin (NOT Enke Gemson, also not a man)  
-Rivers of London series, Ben Aaronovitch (the wizard detective series)  
-_Red, White, and Royal Blue_, Casey McQuiston (the Very Pink romance novel, which is indeed charming as heck)  
-Enola Holmes Mysteries, Nancy Springer (the Victorian teenager who finds lost people)


End file.
